


Into the Dark

by howaboutno7



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, destiel (hinted), the bunker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howaboutno7/pseuds/howaboutno7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam is 90% positive Dean and Cas are fucking, he lets a complete stranger organize books in the bunker, and then they have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was not Beta'd so don't mind the dumb parts, it's because most of this was written at 3AM or on 3 hours of sleep(:

[](http://s1382.photobucket.com/user/Nelli_Taylor/media/91_1food__food_edible_flowers_5_zpsqz85sde9.jpg.html)

All Billy heard all day-- every single day for the last three-hundred and ninety-eight days of her life-- was the endless chatter of the dead. Constantly shouting away in her head, building up the pressure until she felt like her brain would explode. Some days she hoped it would. Sybil Larkin was a psychic medium. She’d made the mistake of opening herself up to the voices of the dead nearly a year ago and had been regretting it ever since. It had started off simple enough. She’d begun talking to a voice that only she could hear. Billy had been convinced she was going crazy, but figured she might as well have some company for the ride, even if that company wasn’t ideal.

He sounded like an older man, but not too old. Old enough to have the voice of a man who saw a war or two, but had died prematurely. When she spoke to him, she felt the weight he carried on his shoulders. He talked to her like he would a daughter, sweet and gruff with some condescending undertones. Without any real parents, she grew attached to it quickly. He explained to her that she lived in a world that wasn’t as black and white as she’d previously thought. He told her she was a medium, that she wasn’t crazy. And that such things as ghosts and vampires and werewolves and zombies and demons were real. That he’d, in fact, killed all of the above and had been killed by a demon. The dead guy encouraged her to reach out to others, try and help the dead move from their inbetween state. He told her that she was one of the few who could help them move on, bring them to a place where they could summon a reaper and finally make it up-- or down-- stairs.

Billy refused. She didn’t help people. The ghost was spiteful, and unused to being told no. He sent them all her way. And so that was why, for the last year, all she heard was

_Please tell my daughter where I put…_

_I never told him that I…_

_You have to avenge my…_

_Tell the police who…_

_I hid it in…_

Billy was almost as prideful as the ghost was bitter. She suffered in silence, knowing the only person who could help her hadn’t talked to her since he sent the army of dead raving lunatics after her. But she refused to call out to him. No, she would just deal with it. She was surprised, to say the least, when his voice found her over the din.

_I can make it stop, Sybil. I need you to do something for me, and I can make it stop._

She scoffed. “Oh yeah? How?” Her own voice startled her in her empty bedroom. And then, as if he had flipped a switch, there was complete silence. No more howling, screaming voices in her head. Only her own thoughts; shock and awe at the wonder of only hearing her inner voice for the first time in a year.

_His voice was an unwelcome interruption. I need you to quit your job, leave your life here, and drive until I tell you to stop._

“Why would I do that?”

_Because I can send them all back._ She heard it, then. Faintly. The voices calling out her name. Begging her to do something-- anything-- to help them. _Call your job. Quit. Pack a bag and leave._

“I can’t just leave--” The noise grew until she couldn’t hear anything at all save the voices that haunted her day and night. She cried out, hands clasped uselessly over her ears. The sounds were so sharp and loud it brought tears to her eyes. She buried her face in her pillow so her roommates wouldn’t hear the pained sounds she knew she was making. And then, just like that, it was all gone and all she heard was his voice, insisting. She wordlessly wrote down the address he gave her, packed a bag and emptied her bank accounts, and left town without a word to anyone.

She drove for two days with no rest and no word from the ghost, living on baby carrots and beef jerky and silence. When she arrived at her destination, she balked. It looked like a sewer entrance. Still no response from the ghost, so she got out of her car and investigated the door. It was nothing special. A little dingy and dirty and probably older than her by a number of years. It was locked when she wiggled the handle, so she knocked tentatively with no response. Having no idea what to do about it, she turned to go. She jumped when the door unlocked with a metallic bang.

A man poked his head out. He was painfully familiar. Dark eyebrows bunched low over slim hazel eyes. His jaw was shaded by a day-old beard, and his nose was crooked as if he had broken it many times. His right ear was slightly larger than the other, and his pink lips were turned down in a way that made her own mouth water. He cocked his head to the side. “Who are you?” he asked.

Her heart lodged itself in her throat. “Billy- uhm, Sybil. But you can call me Billy.” She wasn’t one for talking to people, but he had a face that made her want to tell him every secret she kept.

“What do you want?”

“I-- uh, I was told to come here… by a ghost? I’m a, uh, a psychic. I talk to dead people and… he sure knew you. I can feel it.” _Way to act like a fucking idiot_ , she chastised herself. His chin lifted and his brows lowered further.

“What ghost?”

She shrugged. She’d talked to the ghost for the better part of three months and neglected to ask his name. “He wanted me to come here. He made me… he made me basically quit my life to come here, so I think it was important.”

Sam looked at her. “You don’t know why you’re here?” Billy shook her head.

A spark of courage bloomed in her stomach and she asked, “May I come in?” His jaw went a little slack, then his frown deepened as if he had decided something and gave her a short nod. She pushed past him into, what looked like, an underground library-slash-communications centre. She peered over a balcony to the room below. Metal machines with blinking lights and buttons dominated one half of the space, while, through a thick marble archway, huge wooden bookcases occupied the other. A lightbox table sat in the center of the room below her and three heavy wooden tables, piled high with books and papers and file boxes, spanned the length of the next room.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she walked down the stairs.

“Sam.” She heard him close and lock the metal door.

Without thinking, she said, “Winchester.” The name tumbled out of her mouth of its own volition, but it seemed to fill the room with a sense of just total thereness. There was no other word to describe it. Like the name fit this place, somehow. As if it had been uttered in this room thousands of times.

“I’m sorry?” Sam was right behind her, and she realized that she had stopped halfway down the stairs.

“Sam Winchester?” she asked, turning around to look at him. He had stiffened and his eyebrows had raised. “What was your father’s name?” She finished her descent down the stairs. “Out of curiosity.”

“John,” he said slowly, but with conviction.

“John,” Billy repeated. And then, “John,” almost as if she were calling him. She paused and looked around the room, then continued to the next one. She began reading the book titles, touching each one as her eyes studied the faded characters. “Is this why you needed me?” she mumbled, too low for Sam to hear.

Almost as if she were possessed, she began exploring the bunker with Sam following close behind. Her mind had no control over where her body was going, how it was moving, and it scared her to an extent. But mostly, she was fascinated by what she was seeing. Sometimes she would ask Sam a question, but mostly she was silent. She touched every book and studied every displayed artifact as if committing them to memory. To both her and Sam’s surprise, she passed over the mundane rooms-- the bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom-- and went straight for the stacks. They were a mess at the moment, as Sam was trying to organize the Men of Letters’ outdated filing system. She navigated the mess easily, though, stopping in the middle of the last room.

“Do you want help with… all this?” She waved her hands around at the dishevelled and misplaced books. “I-uh, I interned in a library for a summer.”

One side of Sam’s mouth raised in a small, open-mouthed smile and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and Billy make out, and Dean comes home.

[](http://s1382.photobucket.com/user/Nelli_Taylor/media/91_1food__food_edible_flowers_5_zpsqz85sde9.jpg.html)

He didn’t know why he let her in. There was something about her, though. The trust was instantaneous. Sometimes he thought about the looks he would get when Dean got home. But then he would watch her, the way she handled the books so carefully, adding each title to the inventory list in messy and scrawling but feminine handwriting. The way her hair fell over her shoulder and obscured her clear ivory skin. How she sucked on her bottom lip as she thought and absently pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, twirling the pen in her fingers. He would very quickly decide that he didn’t care how Dean looked at him. 

Every now and then, Billy would catch Sam staring at her. Big baby blue doe eyes turned from the browned pages of a book to his mucky hazel ones. A smile tugged at the corners of her pink lips and she tucked a strand of fawn hair behind her ear. With a wink, she returned back to work, filling in the necessary information about her book and putting it in its designated pile. 

Something about her demeanor told him that she wasn’t usually this outgoing and straightforward. He saw the walls she put up, and saw the facade she laid over them that portrayed her confidence. He understood completely. 

They worked in an amiable half-silence for three days. She’d made herself a nest on the couch in the sitting room; she went to bed after and woke up long before Sam and was almost always working. Billy was still in virgin territory when it came to the supernatural world. Sometimes she would be reading a book and ask Sam to explain something, launching them into an hour-long conversation about Enochian Symbols, the assumed extinction of vampires, or the summoning rituals for various demons. 

As the third day came to a close, Billy became restless. She couldn’t focus on the books she was reading, and the thought of another salad for dinner made her want to only eat cake and red meat for the rest of her life. She slammed her book closed and stood up. Sam looked at her, brows raised. 

“We’re going out,” she said. 

He laughed shortly. “Okay.”

“And we’re taking my car.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Okay.”

Sam riding in the passenger seat of Billy’s shitty little Chevy S10 was the most thrilling and awkward event to date for him. The thing chugged along like it was using its last ounce of life to get them to the asian restaurant on the other side of town. Its guttural sputter provided the background for their disjointed and half-hearted conversation. 

Over dinner, their discussion became more intimate than werewolves and ghouls. She skillfully maneuvered around his questions about her past, but when they began talking about their shared interests she became passionate and animated. He smiled more than he had in a long time. 

They had to leave when the restaurant started shutting down. They carried on talking through most of the ride home. At one point, Sam gestured and his hand landed on Billy’s thigh. It was a totally natural, instinctive thing he did, and she didn’t fight it or reject it in any way. 

When they arrived at the bunker, Sam opened the door for Billy. She went inside, but turned immediately and leaned against the railing. He looked at her, those full pink lips and huge blue eyes. He wanted to drown in them. He closed the door behind him with a light metallic bang, then placed his hands on the railing in either side of her. 

There was something in her eyes, need or fear or a mixture thereof. Her jaw tightened briefly and she blinked at him, waiting. He leaned forward and she held her breath. Her eyes drifted shut as he kissed her bottom lip. He reached up and put a hand on her chin, just his thumb and forefinger. The second kiss was returned, their lips meeting and separating with that satisfying kissing sound. His hand moved from her chin to the back of her head and he studied her for a moment. 

Her eyes were still closed, lashes feathered along her cheekbones. Her face was tinged red. He could almost hear her heart pounding in her chest. He leaned in again, supporting her head with his hand. Their mouths worked together, opening and closing at the same time. His tongue found its way inside her mouth and she nipped at it. Her teeth dragged against his lip and he bit black playfully. Her hands found the back of his neck and pressed her fingertips into the skin at this hairline. 

His hands had traveled to her hips and were tracing small circled on the fabric covering her hipbones. They slipped under her shirt as his mouth moved to leave his mark on her neck. 

She smelled like coconut and the oriental restaurant and old books. Her hands clawed through his hair and her head leaned back allowing him more room to work. He sucked and nibbled on her neck, then traveled back up to her mouth. His hands moved, one at a time, to cup her face. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, like he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life kissing her. It made her toes curl and involuntary sounds come from her throat. 

Billy pulled her head back and placed a hand on his chest. “We should stop.”

He cleared his throat and fell back a step. “Uh, yeah. I, uh-- we should get to bed.”

She nodded quickly and was already halfway down the stairs by the time he felt confident enough to walk anywhere. He shivered through a cold shower and got in bed, his mind and body still humming. It had been a long time since he had done anything like that. As he got older, the idea of kissing or fucking some girl from a bar became less appealing. He rolled out of bed less than twenty minutes later, restless. 

A warm light still glowed from the front room. Billy was on the couch, rubbing coconut oil on her legs. She looked up when he walked in. Sam stuttered something about getting a glass of water and she nodded at him, returning to what she was doing with a new flush to her cheeks. He braced himself on the kitchen sink, held a hand under the cool water and ran it over his face. 

Two hands ran up his back and around his waist. His back tensed and she planted a kiss on his shoulder. He would’ve given anything to have forgone the shirt after his shower. He suppressed a shiver when her hands left him. She pulled herself up onto the countertop next to him and crossed her legs at the knee. All she was wearing was an oversized t-shirt. 

When Sam didn’t make a move, Billy reached out and pulled him over to her with a fistfull of his shirt. This time there was nothing sweet about it. Her mouth was hot against his, biting and sucking. Her legs had wrapped around his waist and her hands were tangled in his hair. His hands were on her thighs, sneaking up bare skin under her thin shirt. 

Suddenly there was nothing more obtrusive than clothing, specifically hers. She seemed to have the same idea as him, pushing him away to tug the offensive cotton over his head. She reached down to pull her own off, his hands already bunching it at the waist. He pulled it over her head, enjoying how her bun fell apart and silky strawberry hair cascaded down her back. She was wearing navy blue boyshorts and a lacy nude bra that made his mouth water. Fingers were scraping up his abs, palming his chest and shoulders. He leaned in for another kiss, grabbing her thighs and giving her a sharp tug so they were pressed so hard against each other he could feel the pattern of the lace on her bra against his chest. 

Sam’s hand slid up her back and under her bra and stayed there when she jerked away from him. His eyes opened to see what was wrong, and he followed her gaze. Dean stood there, eyebrows raised and a stupid grin on his face. Cas stood a few feet behind him, face blank. Billy’s hands drew away from Sam’s face and she grabbed for the first piece of fabric she could find in an attempt to preserve her modesty. 

They all stayed silent for a moment, until that bubble of courage seemed to appear in Billy’s gut. Holding the shirt in front of her, she slid off of the counter. “So I’m Billy,” she said slowly. 

“She’s been, uh, helping me with the books,” Sam added. 

Dean barked out a laugh. “Going for some extra credit?” he asked her almost humorlessly. 

Sybil ran the tips of her fingers along her bottom lip, glancing at Sam. “I’m going to go take a shower,” she said. Three pairs of eyes followed her out of the room. 

Sam’s cheeks burned slightly as a giant grin broke over his brother’s face. Dean clapped his shoulder, made a lewd comment, and left the kitchen area. Castiel lingered, not quite sure whether it was appropriate to follow Dean, but decided to anyways. Sam gathered himself and then shuffled to his bedroom. He ran into Billy on the way there.

"I realized I already took a shower," she said quietly. 

Sam's mouth had gone dry. He cleared his throat. "Do you wanna--" He gestured towards his room. 

There was a moment's hesitation, and then she shook her head. "Not tonight," she whispered. She patted him on the chest and disappeared into the dark. He let out pent up breath he hadn't known he was holding, then got in bed and relieved some of the tension he carried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's call this chapter the late night ramblings of a hopeless romantic in a long distance relationship-ish. Once again, sorry if the writing is shit. You might label me a workaholic and so writing is put off until the wee hours of the morning when my vision gets blurry and my brain turns to gooey emotional mush. Also, my apologies for taking so dang long. Like I said, workaholic.


End file.
